but the sky is never gray | frank ocean.

x's and o's

❝We'll never be those kids again.❞
- Frank Ocean. Ivy.

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Frank liked a lot of things, but, truthfully, he could only claim to love three: his family, expensive cars, and beautiful art.

The first one he had left behind in the States, but he couldn't find it in his heart to miss them too badly; not when he had an unemployed supermodel racing across British roads with him.

He let his eyes wander off the road and to where Rowe hunched in his passenger seat, her long legs decorating the dash.

Feet on the dashboard was one of his long-time pet peeves, but she looked so lost in thought that Frank felt it would be an injustice to disrupt her.

"Right here."

He turned into an unfamiliar (not that that meant much, he had only been here for a couple weeks) neighborhood and parked on the street, only narrowly avoiding a pothole.

"This it?" He questioned.

Rowe smiled at him, exiting the car and going around to give him what was meant to be a brief kiss on the lips, but his strategic hand placement quickly turned it into a sloppy makeout.

Frank reluctantly pulled away, realizing that whoever had called her was probably waiting in her arrival. "You should get going."

She just hummed, waiting a couple seconds before approaching the steps of the small house.

Rowe kicked up the faded red-orange cloth doormat to reveal a tiny brass key, glinting in the dull light.

"Bye Frank. See you later, yeah?" She hollered after him, not missing the toothy grin on his face as he entered his Ferrari. Rowe entered the small house with a goofy smile, the THC coursing through her system and the 'bubble' she was still in mixing to create a near-euphoric feeling that almost made her forget where she was.

"You got a nigga with money now, Rowboat?" came the low raspy voice from somewhere above.

Almost.

Rowe rolled her eyes and tossed her mini-knapsack onto the bright red reclined armchair, the same armchair where Slick had gifted her her first kiss and a taste of what she couldn't deny (she wishes she could) had been true love.

"I know you're fishing so I'm just gonna tell you now: he's not my nigga," she mumbled, irritated the bubble was popped.

Rowe could feel Slick's relieved smirk light up the atmosphere.

"They never are."

Slick's green-tipped nails clacked against the wooden railing she leaned on as she waited for her guest provide some sort of reaction. These days it seemed anger was all she could get out of Rowe, anyways.

After roughly brushing a loc out of her eyes and yanking open the fridge, Rowe glanced upwards, trying her best to suppress any kind of negative reaction. "How many of those you eat a day?" she asked, trying to maintain an even tone.

A tiny cone-shaped chip bounced off the unswept floor and rolled under Rowe's sneaker. "Unlike you, I like sticking with sum' once I get into it."

"Could you fuck off, perhaps?" Rowe grabbed the small lamb curry filled tupperware and the foil triangle she already knew contained naan. "It's like you don't know how to get over what happened damn near seven years ago."

"And you the expert at getting over things, right Rowboat?" Another corn chip landed directly in the path to the microwave, almost causing a crumbly mess across the kitchen floor.

The low hum of the microwave radiated through the air, followed by two loud beeps that pierced Rowe's delicate eardrums. "Fuck off. You always wanna start something when I come here."

"I won't fuck off, but I can fuck you."

The heavy tension that flowed through the house dissolved as quickly as it came.

"Corny. Can you wait until I eat?" Rowe raised her eyebrow to indicate that she wanted an answer, but all she received was another thrown chip and Slick's gapped smile.

She stopped down to pick up the fallen snack and attempted to chuck it back, failing miserably. "I'm not cleaning up your mess this time, Slick."

Heavy steps sounded through the house until the clean shaven woman appeared before Rowe, dressed in her signature overly cropped hoodie, tight fitting track pants, platform Fenty boots, and what seemed like a jewelry store worth of chains.

"That's that double meaning shit, huh." Rowe looked up from her meal to see Slick, resting her head on her worst, connected to hand that Rowe noted was adorned with freakishly long lime green and black nails, excepting the clipped index and middle fingers.

"What you can do it, but I can't?"

"Ain't say that." She hummed, her orange buzzcut glowing in the kitchen lights. "Hurry up, I'm horny."

Rowe rolled her eyes and ripped off another piece of naan to dip in the curry.

∆

Fucking Slick was so comfortable, so routine, that Rowe didn't need the confidence that those little baggies in the corner of Slick's bedpost gave her. The swirl of her index finger around her clit and the feeling of pink plastic hitting her g-spot was enough to keep her dizzy, at least until it was over.

The scent of their sweat and Rowe's tears (Slick had a talent for beating it up) mixed with the resentment both of them held for one another to create a strange smell that filled the room.

When it was over, Rowe would probably feel disgusted and disappointed with what she had just done and who she had chosen to do it with.

Unfortunately, theft didn't come as easily as regretful sex to Rowe. It was second nature to Slick, seeing as how she lived in a crackhouse for 9 terrible years, but Rowe always had a bothersome tendency toward empathy that made any kind of taking sort of difficult. That's what the rolled up dollar bill and lines of white powder were for: courage, and maybe something a little extra.

When Rowe's loc-covered head and Slick's bald one were sufficiently filled with bravado, the couple piled into her beat up green Ford pickup and went until they found themselves at the house of someone Slick had known in some past life, that she seemed unnecessary enough to steal from. Rowe almost respected it, how Slick's absurd memory would kick in at the perfect moment, and she would remember her ex-dealer's neighbors kept a key under their potted plant.

They entered the house, making sure to walk in slowly and naturally like they belonged there, only beginning to move frantically once the door slammed shut.

Rowe ran out with her knapsack full with a ruby-centered ring that most likely was meant to be some kind of family heirloom, a golden anklet, and 60 pounds. Slick, who took it upon herself to search the downstairs rooms, discovered 80 pounds, a tablet (that she made sure had the sim card removed) and a couple cents of change.

It would be enough to hold them over for about two weeks.

That was fourteen days that Rowe wouldn't have to interact with Slick, that she wouldn't have to have her past right in front of her.

She wished someone would tell her how to feel about that.

∆

@slickwoods on Instagram, my literal favorite model to exist ever, plays Slick (I also lifted the picture in the mm from her Instagram so).

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